


Lambs for this

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Consensual Vulpes, F/M, Revenge, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Star-crossed, it's a romeo and juliet AU you get the gist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21710074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Why did he have to be Legion?” Julie said softly. “Why couldn’t I bring home a nice trooper on loan from Camp Golf? Or a first beret from the Hub?” she swirled her drink. “Vulpes. Vulpes Inculta. God, could he have a more Legion name? If he were Marcus I could call him Mark and pretend, but Vulpes. God.”An NCR courier finds herself trapped in an arranged marriage, ordered by General Oliver to marry the sweet James Hsu. A chance meeting with Vulpes Inculta at a party changes everything. / A Romeo and Juliet take on F!Courier x Vulpes Inculta.
Relationships: Female Courier/Vulpes Inculta
Comments: 25
Kudos: 47





	1. Portrait of the American West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What, art thou drawn among these  
> heartless hinds?  
> Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.  
> 

It was a hot, sticky flat sort of day that seemed the only type the desert had had in mind to conjure of late. Humid with air which was like breathing soup, sticking hair to the forehead and turning trooper armour into pressure cookers. Steam practically erupted from troopers’ collars when they went out on 1pm duty, standing around and chewing gum all day under the dog day sun. When they stripped off in the tents of Forlorn Hope, their vests stuck to bodies like a second skin and once the vest was snatched off sweat trickled like rainwater down the valley of their pink spines. It was a hell of a place for a boy from nowhere California to end up.

_Clear_ , Betsy signalled to Ten of Spades and they moved down the hill.

It was Betsy, Ten of Spades and one other member of First Recon. They had been handed out on loan to Camp Forlorn Hope a month prior and were doing a reconnaissance run on Nelson. Corporal Sterling had advised against it, saying that they had to wait until the paperwork came through making their transfer official, but Betsy had said fuck that they were here to make moves. Betsy was good like that: rough and tumble and the fighting spirit of the NCR. Lord knew Forlorn Hope could use a little fighting spirit.

_Clear_ , the other spotter, a new guy named Craig Boone, signalled. Craig was working alone for the mission; he had been passing through the area and said he was interested in seeing what muscle the Legion were keeping in Nelson since he’d been thinking of making a run on it. Either that or Cottonwood, he’d pick the one where he’d make the most trouble. Exactly the kind of thing that the paper-shufflers at HQ hated: exactly the sort of thing Betsy allowed and Sterling turned a blind eye to. Besides, Boone was former first recon. Practically family.

Ten of Spades kept close to Betsy as they closed in on the town, which was black and smoking. The main street was old crucifixes and charred bones; even the buzzards left them be. A little further along the main street, the houses were more battered than burned out: Ten of Spades could see a post office, a chemist, what had perhaps been a schoolhouse. There was movement in the post office: a gecko hissed and scratched in the dirt. That could be a problem if they got too close: they didn’t want to sound the alarm with premature gunfire. They didn’t want to shoot at all: _just recon_ , Betsy had said. For once, she had meant it.

“Promise?” Ten of Spades had asked her, when she’d proposed the mission in the morning.

“Promise. When we make a run on Nelson, we can’t blink,” Betsy said. “We’ll just have a poke around and see what kind of defense they have on the southern side. It’s mostly burned up down there; there might be some cover we could use at a later date.”

The unit stopped to crouch in the shrub at the top of the hill, looking down on the town together. Craig Boone said he was going to see if he could scare off the gecko quietly with a rock or two. Geckos tended towards skittishness when by themselves, so he thought it would be manageable. Betsy said she’d go down with Ten of Spades and have a look down Main Street. The Legion forces were living up in the town hall on the north side of the town, as well as spreading themselves in camps on the eastern edges. Closer to the river and security, as well as on higher ground where the faint red shape of their tents could be made out on clear days from Forlorn Hope. They often kept fires burning to remind the troopers they were there.

“Just recon?” Ten of Spades reiterated as Boone left him and Betsy alone.

“Nothing but.” They went down into the town.

The town was hotter than the hills, lacking the weak breeze they’d barely noticed, much less appreciated. The air felt like wading through a swamp: thick and dirty, with black smears streaking the windows of the houses they passed. Sometimes the Legion moved in and fixed places up when they meant to settle an area: here, it was clear they were leaving Nelson as a message. Glass littered the streets along with the bodies of fallen troopers and Ten of Spades tried to keep his eyes anywhere but there. He wondered if anybody had collected their dog tags. Probably not, but he wasn’t about to stop and ask.

_Stop_ , Betsy’s hand snapped into the air.

Ten of Spades froze and barely breathed.

_Ahead_ , she signalled and Ten of Spades crouched, bringing up his scope. Nothing on the horizon. Nothing in the east. Nothing in the west –

A man in red stepped out of the post office, “Good mornin’.”

Betsy’s hand snapped up, swinging her rifle around to train it on the legionary. He was dressed in light armour over a tunic, drinking a sarsaparilla. He had black goggles on and was smiling. He had a pistol pointed at Ten of Spades’ forehead.

Another legionary came out of the post office behind him, this one just as casual as he scratched the back of his head. This one had a vest on but no armour, he unstuck his wet shirt from his chest as he asked, “Well, what’ve you found, Alexus?”

“Tourists,” their English was good, but Ten of Spades couldn’t help but notice the accent; the way they pinched their t’s and stretched out their vowels. These weren’t Frumentarii, but proper day-to-day legionaries through and through. Full-timers, just like him.

Another appeared at the end of the street now, cutting them off from the hills. 

“We ain’t tourists,” Betsy said slowly. “We’re just leaving, as a matter of fact.”

“Ooh, fact is it?” said the first legionary. “Well, if it’s facts you’re after I’ve got some for you. You’re gonna drop your weapons. And you’re gonna do it real slow.”

“L-l-like hell we are,” Ten of Spades said.

“If it’s hell you want –” the legionary bent down to scratch between the ears of his dog. “Then we can give it to you. Same as we gave it to the other boys.”

Betsy cleared her throat. “Say we drop our weapons – then what?”

“Then we let you go,” the legionary with the sarsaparilla drawled. “Might have a little fun first though. You’re a lady NCR, ain’t ya?”

Betsy’s jaw clenched as Ten of Spades paled: _fuck this, not happening again_. He brought his gun back up and shot Mr Sarsparilla in the groin, then shot the dog as it twitched into life. The street exploded in a flurry of gunfire; Betsy and Ten of Spades rolled behind a building as two more legionaries came up the street. Betsy missed one and Ten of Spades dropped him, the second man shot Betsy’s hat off as he joined Mr Sarsparilla in his post office hide out. There was silence for a moment, silence but for Ten of Spades’ ragged breathing and Betsy cramming bullets into her weapon. Six shots left, she’d best make them count. Bullets were in short supply these days.

She laughed, “You idiot. I was stalling; all we had to do was wait for Boone.”

“I-I-I’m sorry.”

“Can it. It was cute,” she said. “A real cute way to die.”

The silence seemed to expand and they strained their ears to hear what the legionaries in the post office were doing. Probably radioing for reinforcements from across the town, fuck this. They needed to get out of here quick if they were going to get out at all.

“What should we do?”

“Shh,” Betsy said. She peeked around the side of the building, “I think I can hear – they’re moving out of the post office and coming over –”

Ten of Spades gripped her arm suddenly. “Betsy –”

A man in a vest and braces had somehow gotten around the other side of the building and had a pistol in each hand pointed at the pair of them. He looked a civilian, except for the fact he was as relaxed in Nelson as only Legion could be. “Up you get,” he said. “Easy, now.”

They stood up, their backs to the building. The man called to the legionary they’d been shooting, shouted something in Latin. He received a one word reply, then turned to the pair of them. When he spoke, his English was perfectly accented. Frumentarius. He could have been a Vegas sharecropper. “You’re gonna drop your weapons and get. In return, you’ll tell people that Nelson’s still ours and we ain’t losing it. Fair deal?”

“Fair deal,” Betsy said.

“Now, nice and peaceful like.”

They placed their guns on the floor: good luck getting them replaced. It was like cutting off a limb.

“Any extras? Little pistols poking about?”

“Not on our budget,” Betsy said and the man laughed.

“Fairs fair. Off you go – little one first. Go on up the road –” Ten of Spades began to walk slowly, with his hands above his head. It seemed to take an eternity to walk a shuffling yard; he glanced back to look at Betsy and saw the man had one gun pointed at him and the other at Betsy. Some fucking recon mission.

“You get halfway up the hill, I’ll send her on after you. Fairs fair?”

“Hardly,” a voice came out of nowhere: Boone’s voice. Cato’s head arched to see where it’d come from and the former First Recon sharpshooter stepped out of the post office, holding up the dead body of Mr Sarsparilla. “Turn around, Legion,” he said. “Look upon your death.”

“Now, if you listened to what I said, unlike my companions, I’m keeping the peace here –”

“Peace? I hate the word.” Boone’s eyes narrowed and he fired.

The Legion man threw Betsy into the path of the bullet and it caught her in the arm; she screamed and went to snatch her gun from the floor before the man kicked it away, he shot at her and barely missed her skull. Betsy opted to rush up the hill, screaming, “Move, move!” to Ten of Spades who scarcely needed telling twice. They hoofed it up the open road before darting aside to scrub cover; the dead brush and cacti whipped their hands raw. They didn’t look back at Nelson, but they could hear gunfire: the _blam blam blam_ of a heavy pistol and the thoughtful _tock... tock_ of Craig’s rifle fire. He was trying to pick the Legion man off, but he seemed to be failing: return fire kept catching their ears. Betsy and Ten of Spades tore all the way up the hill before stopping to catch breath. Only then did they look down at the town. There were bloodstains on the tarmac and shattered windows, but they couldn’t see the white vest of the man or the red beret of Boone. They were gone.

“Recon?” Ten of Spades panted. “F-f-f-fucking recon?”

“Recon,” Betsy nodded. She checked her wound, pulling at the fabric and wincing. The bullet was still in there. “Well. We sure learned something, huh? Ah.”

***

“Nelson. _Fucking_ Nelson?” Caesar barked.

“Yes, Caesar. Sorry, Caesar.”

It was noon the next day and Cato Hostilius was meeting with Caesar at the fort. The sun was as sweltering as it had been the day previously, but at least being so close to the lake lent a little breeze. They were walking along Lake Mead’s edge now, talking and letting the cool air blow from the water and trickle down their spine.

The old man’s dark eyes were sharp. “I told you I didn’t want anyone drawing attention to themselves if they weren’t at Cottonwood Cove or the Fort. I don’t want the NCR any edgier than they already are.”

“I was attempting to neutralise the scene Dead Sea created, when the First Recon man got the drop on me.”

“How’d he manage that?” Caesar said.

“Well. It was Craig Boone,” Cato Hostilius said. “The one who travelled with the courier. He’s a ghost.”

Caesar stopped to look out over the water. The traffic of boats to and from the cove was steady; across the water, the little red tents and little red men could easily be seen moving around Cottonwood. They were like fire ants ceaselessly working under the eye of the sun.

“Where was Vulpes Inculta? I thought he was meeting with you to look at the dam.”

“He was. He did. We had a look together, I’ve got the report,” he handed it to Caesar, who took the envelope. “In brief, we believe there are several positions an assassination could be done from.”

“Excellent,” Caesar said. He rubbed a hand along his jaw, his hand rasping over stubble. “I’m glad Vulpes wasn’t with you. I couldn’t lose him, not with all we have planned. Still – where was he?”

Cato Hostilius shrugged, “He said he had business. He is quite obsessed with taking the monorail at Camp McCarran.”

“Hmm. Seems a long shot, considering all the eyes on the place, but he usually knows his business.”

“If you see any papers with Rosaline on it, that’s what he’s calling the mission.”

“Oh, lovely. I think he mentioned it,” Caesar said. “It would be useful if he were accomplish it, but the NCR don’t make much use of the thing so it’s hardly a priority.”

They walked a little further along the shore and Caesar turned to Cato. “He’s coming into Cottonwood this evening. Take dinner with him, talk, be his friend. Remind him not to expend too much energy on the mission. He should be focused on the Strip. I could make this an order, but,” Caesar put his hand on Cato’s shoulder. “We both like the man. Let’s have him think that he came to that conclusion himself.”

***

Vulpes Inculta came late into Cottonwood and the sky was blushing lilac over the black water of Lake Mead. The traffic of the day had cooled down to only the occasional dingy, bobbing about like a leaf on the tides. Within the hour even that would vanish and the lake would lie still and flat. As hot as it was in the day it was as cool by night; his skin stood up as gooseflesh up and down his arms.

He wrapped his arms around himself as the water and sky went black.

After some time passed, another man came and sat down beside him. He brought a cup of dark tea and a wrap stuffed with meat and sweet peppers. He gave both to Vulpes.

“It’s not Rosaline, is it?”

Vulpes did not move his head from looking at the lake. He bit into the wrap.

“Forget it,” Cato Hostilius drank from a clay cup; something sweet and steaming. “You know, there’s a party coming up at Camp McCarran. I expect you’ve heard all about it.”

“I’ve heard something of it.”

“Picus sent the message an hour ago that James Hsu left the official headed notepaper out on his desk. He’s written us up some invitations.”

Vulpes smiled in spite of himself. “How many?”

“Three. You, me, and him. He thought more might attract attention.”

“Might attract attention anyway. What sort of party?”

“Fancy dress. It’s in honour of General Oliver’s birthday.”

_General Oliver’s birthday_. Vulpes wondered if the monorail would be open. Could he seduce some bigshot politician’s daughter into letting him have a poke around? Possibly. “We’ll have to think of some outfits,” Vulpes sipped his tea.

“Indeed. I thought I might go as a casino girl. Pencil skirt, red lips. What do you think?”

Vulpes’ eyes raked up and down his friend, who currently sported a bristling brown beard with all the sleekness of a boar’s backside. “Mm, sensual.”

“What are you going to be?”

“I don’t know. A powder ganger.”

“Surely you can do a little better than that?”

“I’ll see what I can come up with. When’s the party?”

“Thursday.” It was Saturday now. “So you’d better get a wriggle on if you’re coming.”

“I’ll come. We can head off tomorrow morning and arrive in Vegas on Monday. I’ve got a little business in town I need to take care of anyway.”

“As always,” Cato said. A heron flew down low and sifted its grey hands over the water; it came up with a flashing silver scrap for its trouble. A lake minnow; salty sweet and nice on toast. Not that the heron would be having it on toast.

They watched as it circled the evening once and went over the lake. Vulpes became pensive as its dark wings faded in the gloom; he wondered if it would bed down with the others in the marshes of the north shore. He pictured it standing in the purple night, head tucked under a wing and nibbling on its supper. Not so different from himself.

“See if Picus can get his hands on a guest list. It would be good to know our marks.”


	2. Dancing in the moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!  
> Give me my sin again.

Monday morning in Vegas. The day began gentle and yellow, like the petal of a dog rose. Softly, the few clouds began to swim across the sky, lazy under the white spread of sunlight which went through the dawn as a buttery drip. There were crows on the wires, swinging over and around and chattering about the day to come. Camp McCarran woke up around the same time, coming to with a languid deliciousness. A stretch, a crunch of bones, a scratch of a sweaty neck with fingers slipping and sliding on wet skin. Queueing for a shower, washcloth in the sink, grits for breakfast with an egg on top. Sunny side up, like their Vegas fortunes. All smiles.

The soldiers went around the camp with bleary-eyed duty, shuffling papers from one side of the Mojave to the other. Some troopers did drill, little boys and girls snapping arms and keeping time. Others made marks on clipboards as they considered supply lines and resources. Others still tinkered on the monorail, tried to decode Legion transmissions they’d intercepted on the radio. General Oliver was being shown around the place by Colonel Hsu, who had spent the morning convincing the good general of all the progress they’d made. That progress being: at least there had been no regression.

They turned away from matters of state to matters of the heart.

“Now, general. There was something I wanted to discuss beyond business –”

“Not business, eh? I hope you’re not talking about my party. I consider that a very serious business, you know. We’re getting in Californian champagne.”

They had come to Hsu’s office; General Oliver lit up a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke in the air. Hsu had a little dish of sunflower seeds; he fished his hand about in the bowl and palmed a handful into his mouth. There were two bottles of cola on the table, sweating and dripping.

Hsu popped the cap off his cola using the edge of the table, “It’s a bit of both then. It’s Julie –”

“ _Julie_ ,” General Oliver became stern at the mention of the courier who’d been working for NCR all summer. “I thought we’d already covered this.”

“Well, that was a while back. I thought it worth re-covering, with the party coming up. It was my intention to ask her –”

“I know exactly what you’d like to ask her, Hsu,” General Oliver tapped his cigarette in Hsu’s glass ash tray. “The answer’s the same as before.”

“General –”

“I’ve told you, Hsu. It’s nothing personal,” General Oliver laughed. “You know I think you’re a hell of a guy. You’d be my pick for her. But she’s a valuable ally and she’s got a lot of connections of the sort we need. She’s still a little nervy and I’m not confident she’s committed to the NCR yet. I don’t want you scaring her off. Give her a year, then if you still like her, you’d have my blessing. Let’s wait and see.”

Hsu didn’t say anything beyond spitting his sunflower shells into a pot. A silence stretched between them and Oliver shifted a little in his seat. He took pity on the man.

“Look, tell you what. Talk to her at the party, have a dance maybe. No funny business, but see how she likes you. Then we’ll get someone to talk to her and find out if she’s interested. She can make the advance if she wants then.”

“Hmm.”

“Take it or leave it. I’m not scaring off a good ally just because you think she’s cute,” General Oliver took a fistful of sunflower seeds for himself. “You can’t say that’s more than fair.”

Hsu considered. He’d thought as much himself, but he’d still wanted to see what Oliver thought. Didn’t want to make waves unduly.

“I suppose.”

“You suppose correct,” General Oliver tipped the salty seeds into his mouth. He split a case off with his teeth and spat it out. “What’re you wearing to the party, anyway?”

***

A few days passed and it was Thursday. The champagne had arrived and was being kept under lock and key by Lieutenant Boyd. There were cakes and sweets, fruits and cheese, a whole side of Brahmin cooked slow with onions and peppers. There was bread dotted through with seeds like gunfire; there was gecko bacon cooked in honey. There was everything a trooper could dream of and yet most of the troopers had been cleared off the base: this was invite only and the general was selective. A few troopers on staff as security to check in guns and inspect invitations, but mostly it would be officers and friends of the general only. The courier Julie didn’t feel she fit into either category, yet all the same Colonel Hsu had pressed an invitation into her hand two weeks ago.

“It’ll be quite a night,” he’d said with a warm smile.

Julie wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that, but equally she felt sure she had to go. It would be an affront not to; it wasn’t as though she had much on her plate currently. Knock around Vegas, run some errands for the NCR, perhaps have a drink or take in a show on the Strip. It was too hot to manage much else.

Julie brushed her brown hair out slowly and began to plait it. She was supposed to be Maid Marian: they had put Robin Hood on the radio as part of the Followers’ culture hour for the past month and she was hooked. Julie loved the romantic swashbuckling of the eponymous lead, the gallivanting through the green Sherwood Forest, the ill-gotten gains gainfully restored. It was all so romantic and that was what she was at heart, although she had little enough opportunity to express it these days.

She’d wanted Boone to go as Friar Tuck or one of the merry men, but he’d refused. He sat in the corner of her room, smoking as she whisked a ribbon through her plaits. She wanted to make two plaits, then shape them around at the back. She’d been studying the picture of Maid Marian on the pamphlet the Followers had handed out to advertise their program: plaited hair, ribbons, dorky yellow peasant dress.

Boone had a black hat with a low rim sitting on his knee. A radio was playing a gentle song about a man posted to the outpost missing his Shady Sands girl.

“Who’s gonna be your Robin Hood?” he asked.

“Who says I need one?” Julie spoke around a pin wedged in the corner of her mouth. “Besides, who’s gonna be your Arizona ranger?”

Boone was going as Texas Red from the song Big Iron. His face was impassive as he breathed a grey cloud.

“Don’t change the subject,” he said. “You know, you could do a lot worse than Hsu. A lot worse.”

“You sound like my mother,” Julie said. “I get it, he’s a nice guy.”

“So?” Boone said. “What’s the issue?”

“I don’t know. I’m not interested,” Julie turned to face the mirror and felt Boone’s eyes drilling into the small of her back. She rubbed blush into her cheeks. “I’m too young to be a war widow, you know? Maybe if we make it past next summer. But not now. Everything’s too... impermanent.”

“Sure,” Boone’s tone of voice made it clear he thought this was a lousy excuse. “I’m gonna go downstairs and grab a beer. You want one?”

“Please,” Julie said. He closed the door behind him and Julie let out a sigh. Her plait was all wonky; her fingers had gone to jitters when Boone was grilling her so she’d have to take it out and do it again. That was of course probably the whole point of her being invited to the party: so Hsu could ask her out and she’d feel some obligation to say yes. Not that Hsu would see it as trapping her: he was genuinely a nice guy. But that was what it would feel like and that was what she’d have to avoid. Maybe she could put in a quick showing and scoot. Or recruit a wingman to keep her occupied on the dancefloor all night.

***

By seven p.m., the party had gotten going; by eight p.m., it was in full swing. Vulpes and Cato arrived with Picus when the party was sufficiently busy for them to lose themselves in the warm crowds. Cato had kept his beard and gone as Grognak the barbarian, using Aurelius’ contraband comic as a guide when it came to loincloths and shimmering sweat. Picus was beast wrestler, inspired by the Thorn. He had streaked his face and vest with Brahmin blood and called that the costume. It was provisionally a masked party, so all the men had strips of cloth with holes cut into them around their eyes.

Vulpes had a brown cowboy hat and a black mask. He wore a nice shirt and dark trousers with a gun harness and pistols. He was a gunslinger like the sort they had around the Californian wastes, but the troopers made all of them check their weapons at the door. This wasn’t a big deal – all Legion could handle themselves hand-to-hand. Besides, Vulpes kept a knife in his boots.

There was live music playing, a noisy brass band borrowed from the Tops and the main drill ground of the camp was given over as a dance floor. Over by the main entrance a table had been laid out with the food and there was an open bar with various drinks. There were lights strung up all around the place; little lanterns on wire and they gave the evening a tangerine glow.

The Legion men dispersed themselves amongst the partygoers and Vulpes grabbed a beer. He thought he would wait and see how drunk and disorderly the night got, then go have a look and a poke at the monorail.

Watching the party, he wondered who he might bother. There were two ladies dressed as geckos drinking tequila across the way. A man who must be General Oliver, dressed as a Roman gladiator – very droll. He was talking with another man who was dressed as a spaceman. The spaceman had a woman in a yellow dress holding his arm.

***

As the evening wore blue, Julie danced with Hsu thrice before she made an excuse and scarpered. It was getting to be too much; she said she needed to change shoes since hers were rubbing her. Crap and lies, but she had to get out of there. It was too warm (and too close) and she couldn’t shake off the feeling that Oliver was keeping an eye on her. She didn’t want to fucking dance with lovely Hsu whom she had _no interest in_. Moreover, she didn’t want any of this – but to be rude might conjure more trouble on the horizon. She needed to be tactful, delicate. So she’d said she’d needed to change her shoes and she had a pair inside.

Now she darted down the stairs in her fresh yellow pumps, which she’d collected from her NCR courier locker.

At least it was lovely and cool in the building here without the band making a racket and her worrying about Boone rattling around like spare change in a can.

Her shoes clicked on the tiled stairs as she passed the second floor. On the floor below, she could hear the monorail humming.

There was no one about; everyone was outside having a nice time. Except her, except Boone. Boone never seemed to enjoy himself.

Click, click, click. Julie came to the door for the first floor.

Just as she put her hand on the door to open it, someone from inside pulled it the other way and she fell forward, sprawling, onto the stranger.

“Ah!”

The man she’d fallen on must be a guest: he had on a black mask and a nice shirt. His cowboy hat had fallen to the floor; quickly, she stooped to collect it for him and noticed he had lovely grey eyes. His fingertips touched the back of her hand as he accepted it; they were warm and her cheeks flushed. His hand rested on hers for a moment feeling like a sting.

“Sorry –” Julie stared at the man in the hat, eyes darting over his face. The man was wearing a mask but she could see he had brown hair and a careful, handsome face. She didn’t recognise him.

Gently, she put his hat back on his head.

“What’s your name?” Julie asked.

“What’s yours?” the man asked.

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question.”

“Well then you’ll have to forgive me –”

“Julie!” Julie’s smile slipped as she caught the sound of Hsu’s voice, definitely inside the building. He must have come to find her. She let the stranger’s hand go and her fingertips felt cold; before she could think on it too much she said bye and was off on her way.

***

Vulpes Inculta watched Julie’s yellow dress slip through the door, which banged once on its swing. Who was she? What was she? Some NCR girl, Hsu’s little thing? But he’d never heard of a _Julie_ belonging to Hsu; Julie who? All very interesting...

He was after her before he knew it, pushing through the doors and heading outside. The nasty brass band had gone away and now a blue number had come on: a song about kissing under a harvest moon. It was very slow and pretty and she was alone outside, looking around for Hsu who’d called her. Vulpes caught her by the wrist: “Let’s dance.”

The music was gentle and a bit sad, sung by a woman in an indigo dress. Vulpes had one hand on the small of the NCR girl’s back and the other on her waist.

“So it’s Julie, is it?”

“Juliet. My friends call me Julie.”

“Juliet is nicer anyway.” 

Julie was short: she had to peer up at him. She said, “Are you going to tell me your name?”

“Maybe later,” Vulpes said. “Doesn’t that make things more interesting?”

“It makes me more suspicious. Tell me something about yourself.”

“You go first.”

“You’re _rude_.”

“Forgive me,” Vulpes brushed a strand of her hair behind an ear. Her hair had been plaited back, but in the heat of the night it had begun to frizz around to frame her face.

“I won’t,” she said. “You’re unforgiveable.”

Vulpes shrugged, “I’ll survive. Perhaps I know enough already. I know your name. I know who your boyfriend is. I know you’re important enough for Oliver to invite you to his special party.” Vulpes twirled Julie and caught her in his arms.

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” Julie said. “I’m nobody.”

“I can’t believe that,” Vulpes said. He paused, twirling her back and looking her up and down. The music was on its last chorus. “For one thing, you’re Maid Marian. You must mean something to Robin Hood at the very least.”

“I don’t have a Robin Hood.” A shattering of noise as onlookers applauded the singer, Vulpes felt Julie wriggling out of his arms.

“What, one dance is all I’m good for? Juliet, you bruise me.”

“I’ll give you another,” Julie said. “If you tell me something about yourself. Something proper.”

Vulpes considered for a moment, looking at the girl. She had a determined look in her eyes and heat riding high in her cheeks. The hair he’d tucked back had come loose.

“Fine,” he said, and took off his mask.

***

Across the dancefloor, Craig Boone was drinking a rum and coke and thinking on nothing. It was a warm slow night and he’d done nothing more than walk the sidelines, smoke too much tobacco and sip on his drink like it were a lime. He had been half-heartedly watching the band and now turned his attention to Julie, who was easy to find among the costumes because of the colour of her dress. She danced with a brown haired man until the end of the song, then they stopped for some reason. The man took off his mask and Juliet touched a hand to his cheek.

Boone recognised the man’s face at once. He dropped his drink and his hand went to his weapon; electricity crawling through his body like he were a pylon.

Oliver intercepted him halfway across the floor.

The good general was drunk and had been laughing a lot; the smile was still etched into his cheeks. He was all ruddy with beery breath and bright eyes. He had gecko blood on his gladiator costume, it wiped off on Boone’s shirt as he leaned on Boone.

“Where’s the fire, first recon?” Oliver slurred.

“That man – I know his face,” he jerked his head in the direction of Julie and her partner. “There. He’s Legion.”

“Who? Where?” 

The crowds between them waxed and waned with the music. “There,” Boone said. His face was tight. “With Julie. Frumentarius. I must kill him.”

“Oh no,” Oliver shook his head, “Shh, let him be. We will pick him up later; let him laugh, drink, get sleepy.” Oliver waved a hand. “Take no notice of him. Someone else will deal with him.”

“No,” Boone set his jaw and tightened his grip on his gun. “I’ll not endure him.”

Oliver’s face went slack. “You’ll not endure him? At my party?” he took the front of Boone’s shirt in his fist. “And who the fuck are you, first recon? The man to fire his gun in the middle of my camp and set everyone screaming? As though madness isn’t what they want?”

He pushed Boone back, then snapped his finger at a trooper who was swaying on the sidelines. “You missed his gun. Check it.”

Boone was expressionless as he handed his pistol to the gormless trooper. Oliver looked at him with scorn. “Endure him or you’ll be gone.” 

Boone still had his knife in his boot and was thinking about it. The song ended and he crossed the floor like a shot.

***

“Oh hey, Boone, this is – actually, I don’t know who this is,” Julie laughed as Boone approached. His face was set like granite and as ever he was as unreadable as stone. His hands were cold; they came down heavy on her shoulder.

“A word,” Boone said and wrenched her away. He put ten feet between themselves and the stranger, marching her off the dance floor and onto the side. He snapped a match to the end of a cigarette;

“He’s Legion, you fool.”

“Ha ha.”

“When’s the last time you heard me joke?” Boone stood on the match.

“Legion? How do you know?”

“I know his face,” Boone said. “And I mean to kill him. Stay away from the man.” Apparently unable to say anything more, he stormed off and was quickly lost among the crowds.

Julie was left under the pall of his cigarette smoke, wrapping her arms around herself. She suddenly felt cold and exposed, alone and unprotected as she was. Her eyes darted around the camp, but she couldn’t see Hsu, Boone or the Legion man. She withdrew into the shadows, into the dark cool wall of the main building; behind the band and the music and the dancers and the beer. Maybe she should get a drink, maybe she should just go to bed. Her arm stung where Boone had dug his fingers in.

Stupid, stupid. But Christ, couldn’t a girl have a little fun? Couldn’t a girl dance without it being a fucking war crime?

A tall shape suddenly stepped before her, blocking off what little light the lanterns gave. It was the stranger.

“Juliet,” he said.

“You’re – you’re Legion,” Julie started, backing up against the wall, heart pounding furiously. All her weapons had been checked and she had nothing, not even a knife. _Idiot_ : she should have gone to get a pistol rather than sitting in the corner and moping. What was wrong with her?

“Guilty,” the man didn’t both to deny it and smiled. Julie should have guessed by his confidence and ease; he moved like a dog and she’d felt the scars on his back through his shirt.

The Legion man closed the distance between them; her back thudded against the wall. The people were dancing over his shoulder; they seemed so distant. Nobody would be able to make them out in the heavy black shadows – unless they came looking. He said, “Have you figured out my name yet?”

“I don’t need to,” Julie said, raising a hand to keep him back. “Stay away from me or I’ll scream.”

“Mm, I don’t think you will,” the man stretched out a hand towards her; she flinched. He knocked her hand down then settled his own around the back of her neck, with a thumb resting in the hollow of her throat. He circled her pulse. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You’re not exactly the trustworthy type,” Julie said weakly. Music floated over from the band, something a little lively with a violin and the blue woman singing again. Where was Boone?

_I’ve been so lonely baby, so lonely, lonely, baby..._

“Is this all because I didn’t tell you my name?” he hovered his lips over hers and lowered his hand from her neck to her heart. “I was only teasing, Juliet.”

“Don’t –” Julie’s voice cut short. “Don’t say my name. It feels dirty from your mouth.”

“Oh, I apologise,” the man smiled again. “I’ll give it you back,” he said and kissed her.

Julie gasped as his mouth met hers. His lips were dry and a little cracked, but warm and gentle all the same. She put her hands up to push against his chest, but when his tongue slipped between her lips her strength drained like snow in spring, tricking away. There was something sweet on his tongue, sarsaparilla maybe, and when he drew back she drew forward.

Her breath was thin. “Give me – give me your name and I’ll give it you back.”

The stranger smiled. “Vulpes Inculta.”

“Vulpes,” Julie breathed. He had a scar on his eyebrow; she traced her finger over it. “So Legion.” This time she brought her lips to his and he had his hand back around her throat, no doubt feeling her heart’s attempt to fly out of her body and blood. He was not so gentle now, but ragged and desperate, and she dug her fingers into his arms. He bit down in reaction and iron burst in her mouth like blossom.

“You kiss by the book,” Julie felt dazed.

There was the sound of footsteps; a horrible interruption. Not Boone, thank Christ – a man streaked in bloody armour appeared in the doorway, holding a beer and a stagger. It was a face she had seen around camp before.

“The colonel seeks a word with you,” he pointed at Julie. “He’s been looking all over. Now he’s down by the band and impatient.” He then turned to look at Vulpes. “The night is at its best; let’s be gone.”

“Oh,” Julie’s heart which had been up in her throat sank down to her toes. “Of course, of course.” She turned to Vulpes; wasn’t sure what to say. She touched the scar on his eyebrow and left.

Vulpes Inculta watched her go, feeling something tug inside his chest. Picus was watching him curiously, “Making a spy, Vulpes?”

“Something like that,” he wiped his lips; Juliet’s blood on the back of his hand. “Where’s Cato? Let’s depart.”

“Dancing with Oliver’s niece, we can collect him on the way,” they made their way companionably through the camp, drifting through the sleepy crowds of dancers and lovers. “So did you manage to get a look at your Rosaline? The engineers will probably be hungover tomorrow; I could try and get the specs from their office so you could...”

Vulpes tuned out the rest of the conversation as they picked up their weapons and left the camp. It was close to midnight and the Mojave sky was dark and bruised, a plum hanging over their heads ready to drop. Golden moths had come down, drawn in by the lights and as they walked along the desert road all he could think of was Juliet, and dancing.

He turned to Picus: “Tell me, did you know that woman?”

“Who?”

“The one I was with.”

“The one you mean to turn spy? Yes, she’s a courier. Julie.”

“Do you know whether she stays in the camp?”

“I think she stays in a motel in West Vegas. I’ve seen her there, anyway.”

“What’s the name of the place?”

“The Heartbreak Hotel.”

Vulpes nodded. “You go on ahead to the safe-house. I left something behind.”


	3. Liaison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?  
> It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

“So, how’d it go?”

“Ma, please... I’m tired; can’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“ _Talk in the morning?_ Are you out of your tree? Juliet, I raise you these twenty three years and you go to a party on the arm of Colonel Hsu and you say to me _talk about it in the morning_?”

It was half past midnight in the Heartbreak Hotel and Julie’s mother had been waiting up out on the balcony of Julie’s room. This first part of the conversation had taken place via the street and the thin air, Julie’s ma shouting down to her at a hundred decibels and Julie calling back.

“Ma, can’t we have this conversation inside?”

“Well get up here!”

Julie dragged herself up the stairs. The hotel was shabby with pink carpets and faded cream walls; by no means the worst of Westside’s offerings but neither was it the Ultra Luxe. She was on the third floor and her ma opened the door for her as she came up. Her ma was wearing an old silk blouse with a skirt and had put her little brown cowboy boots by the door. She was smoking a cigarillo.

“Ma, can’t you at least take it out on the balcony?” Julie wafted the air. “I’ve got to sleep in here tonight.”

“Oh, well excuse me Princess Juliet!” her ma took it to the balcony. “Look on the counter, I brought a bottle. How about you fix us a nightcap then you can tell me all about it, huh? And I’ll wait out here like the bad smell I apparently am.”

“Thank you.”

Julie crossed the room and went to the cupboard, dropping her bag on the bed. She found the bottle of whisky and poured them both two fingers into a pair of glasses. Then she topped the drinks up with Brahmin cream and added a spoonful of honey. She took them out to the balcony.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” Julie’s ma took a sip and sat down on the balcony chair. She folded her arms expectantly. “ _Well_?”

Julie sighed and leaned back on the railing. “ _Sure_ , we danced. We danced to three songs then he got busy with other business. Happy?”

“And how was it? Did you make any plans to meet again? This is like pulling teeth: you’ve got to give me something!”

“I don’t know, Ma. I’m just not that interested in him.”

“You’re not _interested_ in James Hsu? Well, excuse me, it’s about whether he’s interested in you and word on the grapevine is that he is, so,” Julie’s ma slurped her drink and tapped her cigarette over the railing. “For goodness’ sake, he’s the most eligible bachelor in the NCR. When his Angela died, god rest her soul, I thought James’d never so much as _look_ at another woman but apparently according to Jenny from the club you’ve turned his head, so-”

Julie tuned out her ma and looked out on the street below, leaning on the railing. The few sources of light came from neon signs and flickering bulbs above businesses, with most of the view being subdued into great pools of darkness. Her ma was old NCR: born in the Boneyard and the eldest of five boys. Her dad had been a trooper and her husband had been a ranger who had died at Yuma at the hands of a Legion ambush. Ma was bolshie and pushy but Julie knew why; her widow’s pension only went so far and being a courier paid peanuts. She wanted Julie looked after.

This was what made it all so hard, with that man she kissed. Legion. Stupid kiss. Stupid thing to do. Her ma would shrivel up if she ever found out.

But it was probably all irrelevant, because she’d never seen the stranger again. He’d go back to the fort and she’d go back to exchanging pleasantries with Hsu who she’d probably marry. Once the war was over. Yada yada, so it goes. At least her ma would be happy.

Julie touched her lips, looking down at the street. Ma kept on talking behind her, about how when she’d met Julie’s father it hadn’t been love at first sight, _noo_ , of course not, but you learn to love a good man and the affections of such a man returned _are not something to be sniffed at_ –

Their exchange continued this way until one a.m., when Julie’s ma decided it was getting late and she should head back. Julie said she could sleep on the sofa since it was probably too dangerous to walk back in the dark and Julie’s ma quickly agreed, whipping out silk pyjamas and an eye mask and rubbing on her expensive night cream. Then she was out like a light.

Julie poured herself another nightcap and wandered back out on the balcony. She shut the door so she wouldn’t have to listen to her ma’s snoring and sighed. What a night.

“Why did he have to be Legion?” Julie said softly. “Why couldn’t I bring home a nice trooper on loan from Camp Golf? Or a first beret from the Hub?” she swirled her drink. “Vulpes. _Vulpes Inculta_. God, could he have a more Legion name? If he were Marcus I could call him Mark and pretend, but _Vulpes_. _God_.”

The street below was silent and black; nobody spent their Saturday nights in Westside it seemed. Julie sighed again, propping her head up with one hand. “I suppose it’s no difference if he’s Vulpes _or_ Mark though. What’s a name? He was born Legion and I was born NCR; neither of us had any choice. Vulpes by any other name would kiss as sweetly.”

“If my name is so offensive, just call me sweetheart.”

Julie jumped, almost dropping her drink. Vulpes Inculta was on the fire escape to the right of her balcony, sitting on the metal step.

“ _Vulpes_! What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, Juliet.”

“How did you – how did you know I was here?”

“I asked around. It wasn’t top secret. Do you really hate my name so much? I like yours.”

“Shh, keep your voice down, my ma’s sleeping in there,” Julie glanced over her shoulder at the dark room. A gentle snore drifted through the door.

“Answer the question, Juliet. I’ve always rather liked my name,” Vulpes was in a good mood it seemed. “It means desert fox in Latin.”

“There you go, that’s the problem,” Julie said. “ _Latin._ You’re Legion.”

“So? We’re not the only war criminals in this desert,” Vulpes said. “I say Legion, you say Nipton. You say NCR, I say Bitter Springs.”

“It’s not what I say, it’s what my family say,” Julie said. “Besides, the NCR and Legion are not comparable. You keep slaves, women are nothing to you –”

“That’s not true. You’re something to me.”

Julie leaned on the railing of the balcony. “Why? You don’t know me. I’m nobody.”

“I told you; stop saying that about yourself. You’re not nobody.” It was dark, but Vulpes’ eyes were shining. His voice was gentle as he said, “You’re my Juliet.”

Julie should have bristled at his possession of her, at his insistence on _not_ calling her Julie but she didn’t. Instead: “That’s not all you came here to say, is it?”

“What more would you have?”

“Some satisfaction.”

“Then come down.”

Julie crept through her room, past her sleeping mother and closed the door softly behind her. She padded down the stairs in her nightie and slipped past the motel desk-clerk, who was sleeping in front of an out of tune radio. She met Vulpes at the bottom of the fire escape under a street lamp.

“Quick, let’s go in the dark in case ma wakes up and sees,” Julie pushed him against a dark wall.

Vulpes threaded his hands through her hair; she’d brushed it through so it was soft and bouncy like cotton candy. It was kinked from being in plaits all night; he wound it around a finger as he kissed her neck and throat. Julie sighed as he pulled a little, arching her head back to expose her throat. She could feel the scar tissue on his back, his muscle. She wondered what it looked like, how he’d got it.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Vulpes said.

“Meeting you,” Julie whispered, running her hands through his cropped hair. “Right?”

“Good answer,” Vulpes said. “You know Mom's in Freeside? The diner?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Meet me there at seven. Wear a pretty dress.”

“All my dresses are pretty,” Julie said and Vulpes laughed.

***

The next day was Friday and it was a hot one, opening up with a sky the colour of peach syrup. Julie’s ma woke up early and headed back to her place in Freeside; a flat in a dissected townhouse which looked over Camp McCarran. It was paid for by the NCR since her husband had been a ranger who’d died in combat.

Once there, she had a long morning bath with cigarettes and coffee. She followed it up with scrambled eggs, cooked on the hob whilst listening to the radio man talk about the aftermath of General Oliver’s party. Apparently it had been quite a night and everyone involved had had a good time. Plus, there had been no shootings or disturbances. Wasn’t that nice to hear?

Hearing about the party again put Juliet back in her mind. Stubborn as a Brahmin: she got it from her mother. Her pop had been a real pushover.

Julie’s ma contemplated as she poured her second cup of coffee. She got a piece of paper out of her desk draw and smoothed it out. She quickly wrote;

“ _James – lovely to hear about you from Julie! She said you danced and had such a wonderful time last night, took me back to when you used go to dancing with John and I before Yuma. Remember that? Would love if we could meet up and have a coffee this week. Saturday?_

 _P.S. Julie might suggest otherwise, but the girl’s definitely smitten! Whatever did you do to her, James?_ ”

If she sent it via the Mojave Express James Hsu would have it before lunchtime. The contents weren’t exactly a lie –more, a fudging of the truth. Julie said they had danced. She said it had been nice. She’d not said much more than that, but sometimes you have to help things along yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit shorter... please let me know if you prefer longer or shorter chapters!! If they're shorter, I can obviously update a bit more regularly... :-)  
> P.S. thanks for all the comments on the last chapter - really nice to hear people are enjoying it!


	4. Be my baby

Julie tried to keep busy, rather than spending most of the day mooning over a date with a boy. Not only a boy, but a _bad_ boy, a naughty Legion boy. Boy from the wrong side of the tracks. It was like one of her ma’s tawdry novellas, the ones with the red-mouthed women on the front cover groaning in ecstasy as a forbidden tribal pressed his desire against her thigh. _It feels so wrong –what would my family say?_

Of course, in Julie’s case this was a little more worrisome than Sally from the Hub being caught with a member of the Bootriders. Her ma might have a heart attack.

And as for Hsu... this was literally treason. Could she be shot?

 _Well, of course I’d just say I didn’t know anything_ , Julie had reasoned as she’d taken a package over to a sharecropper at noon. _And I don’t, not really._

Except for the fact Boone had expressly told her that Vulpes was Legion. Check and mate.

_I could say I thought he was kidding. How could there be Legion at General Oliver’s birthday party? What sort of security is that?_

These plausible-sounding thoughts had played across her mind as she picked up groceries for her ma at three p.m. Julie knew she could play the ditsy girl well enough; part her mouth and make her eyes wide. _Wahh? Legion? When he said Caesar, I thought he said..._ shit, what did Caesar rhyme with? Seizure, sneezer? She could make something up. She was a bit deaf in one ear; her ma could vouch for that.

Her conclusion by four thirty as she threw her dresses down on the bed: alright, hers were stupid choices and she was being a stupid girl. But Christ, she wanted to live. Wasn’t that what Vegas was all about?

_See the lights, take in a show, fuck a war criminal!_

Well, Julie wasn’t going to actually fuck him. But maybe they’d get a burger and have a bit of a dance. A kiss, a waltz, a conversation. Surely there was no harm in that?

She had three dresses which were on the shortlist: a red gingham, a silky peach, a baby blue with flowers embroidered around the collar and bosom. So: cute, sexy, or pretty? What would a man from the Legion like? Cute, probably: the sexy one showed too much skin and he’d probably think her a loose woman, never mind the fact he’d been her first proper kiss. Plus, the gingham one was the lightest weight and least likely to cling to her body in the fierce summer heat.

She pulled it on and brushed her hair. Then blush, a tiny bit of lipstick, and she cleaned her teeth. Last touches: a bit of whisky, little knife in her handbag. A quick scream out of the window to clear her senses. Then she locked the door behind her and headed off for the wrong side of the tracks.

***

It was half six when Julie headed through the Westside gates into Freeside. The evening was pleasant and warm, with a gentle breeze lifting the edges of her hair. Since she came in from the West, she passed the food stalls which were beginning to shut down for the day: merchants selling sacks of beans, flour, hard tack. A little further down Pearl Lane, the hot food stands sold vegetable wraps and skewers filled with roasted onions and spiced strips of meat. Molerat, by the smell of them; there was always something damp and earthy about molerat meat. It reminded Julie of mushrooms; she couldn’t stomach them either.

Vulpes had said for her to meet outside Mom’s. She passed the Atomic Wrangler as she pressed deeper into Freeside: the place was already wild, despite the early hour. There was a bodyguard in leather armour standing at the doorway, smoking a cigarette. He was chatting with a customer, who was shouting about something and smashed a bottle on the ground in front of the guard.

“I’m not fucking _banned_ , you donkey!” the customer shouted.

Julie watched as the guard threw his cigarette on the ground and stood on it. He crossed his arms, “Listen, pal –”

Julie turned away and hurried down the road. Mom’s was on the same street as the Mormon Fort, in a slightly safer corner of Freeside. She always felt better when she saw the guards outside the Followers’ outpost: a vestige of civilisation. She smiled tightly at a ghoul who was chatting to a tall blonde doctor. The doctor nodded his head.

It was six forty five when Julie arrived at Mom’s. The diner was run by a male ghoul with yellowing skin: he wore a white vest with a tired-looking green apron. She had eaten here fairly regularly when she used to have a bit more coin in her pocket: the food was trustworthy and they had a mutant on security so it was a calm establishment. There were booths were red seats lining the windows and the radio was tuned to Mr New Vegas, who was playing the golden oldies hour. The menu was written on the cream wall in neat scarlet paint: various wraps, burgers and a few casseroles. _Ask your waiter for the specials_ was printed at the bottom of the list.

Julie was just wondering whether she should grab a booth or lurk in the doorway when a hand touched her elbow. She jumped.

“Have you been waiting long?” Vulpes asked.

“No, just got here,” Julie felt heat rising in her cheeks and hoped the Legion man wouldn’t notice.

“Good,” Vulpes moved his hand to the small of her back and led her to a booth towards the back of the diner. There was a halogen lamp hanging over their table which buzzed like a honeybee.

They sat down and Julie looked at the menu for somewhere to put her eyes. She could feel Vulpes staring at her.

“I like your dress,” he said with a smile.

She looked at him. He was wearing a buttery yellow short sleeve shirt and dark trousers. His shirt was open at the collar, exposing a small white scar in the hollow of his throat. His forearms were light brown and striped with a series of tan lines.

“Thanks,” Julie said. “I got the material from Primm.”

“Primm? What were you doing over there?”

“I’m a courier, I told you,” Julie said. “What are you thinking of getting?”

“Maybe the casserole. I’ve had it before.”

“I usually get a burger; maybe I’ll have an omelette this time. Or maybe not; the burgers are pretty good.”

A few minutes passed and Julie pretended to study the menu in deep thought.

Eventually, the ghoul came over to take their order, holding a notepad with a pencil poised in his peeling hand. He was chewing gum. “Evening, folks. What’ll it be?”

Vulpes said; “Evening. I’ll have the special casserole with a milkshake and the lady will have the gecko omelette with a nuka cola.”

Julie started, “Uh, I was thinking –”

Vulpes waved his hand, “She wasn’t.”

The ghoul looked disinterested as he made a note of their order. “Sure. You want the milkshake with honey, sir?”

Vulpes nodded; “Please.”

“No problem. Wait’ll be ten minutes.” The ghoul tucked his notepad into his apron pocket.

Julie waited until the waiter left and scowled; “I am perfectly capable of ordering for myself.”

“I just thought I’d save us some time,” Vulpes leaned back in his seat. “You seemed indecisive.”

Julie folded her arms. “And what do you plan on doing with this time you’ve bought us?”

“Getting to know you. Isn’t that what one is supposed to do on a date?” Vulpes held out his hand across the table, gesturing for her to take it. She tightened her arms and he snapped his fingers, gesturing impatiently. Her heart beat a little quicker in her chest; she slipped her fingertips into his palm.

His hands were rough; like the rest of him, it seemed. “Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Did the Legion make you bossy, or were you always this way?” Julie said.

Vulpes shrugged. “What came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“I want to keep chickens,” Julie said dreamily, propping her chin up. “Colorado hens. In a house in the mountains.”

Vulpes’ thumb circled the back of her hand. “Is there a specific house you have in mind?”

“Made of wood, with a porch. There are chairs on the porch, the door is green. The garden has flowers and vegetables; chickens and a dog. Maybe two dogs. I’d love a dog, but it’s hard in Westside. In that stupid motel.”

“Why do you live there with your mother?”

“Oh, she’s not normally there,” Julie said. “She’s got a flat on Huckle Avenue in Freeside. She just came over last night to see how the party went.”

“How do _you_ think the party went?”

Julie shrugged and Vulpes shook his head; “Answer the question.”

“No. _You_ answer a question,” she said obstinately, “Why am I the only one being grilled?”

“Because I took the initiative, Juliet,” Vulpes said.

“We could trade,” Julie said. “I answer a question and you answer a question.”

“You know the Legion doesn’t believe in democracy,” Vulpes laughed. “What’s in it for me?”

“Some satisfaction,” Julie said.

Vulpes looked at her carefully; the look in his grey eyes reminded her of when she’d first met him, when he was wearing the mask and he’d grabbed her wrist and they’d danced. There was something still in there, a weighing up. A calculation. 

“Alright,” he said slowly.

“I’ll start,” Julie said. “Where did you grow up?”

Vulpes leaned back. “In the Utah. I was part of a fishing tribe which lived on the banks of the Yellow River. The Legion took me when I was a boy.”

“Did you have any family?”

He held up his hand, “My turn. What are your favourite flowers?”

Julie laughed, “Umm. Sunflowers. They look happy.”

Vulpes nodded, but didn’t say anything else. It was her turn now.

“Ok.” This was the question she really wanted to ask and the question she was most nervous of the answer to. She curled her fingers in his hand. “What do you do? In the Legion, I mean.”

Vulpes’ eyes were bright. “What do you think I do?”

“Hey – you can’t answer a question with a question! That’s not the game!”

“I wasn’t playing a game. I can do as I like,” Vulpes said. “I’ll give you a few clues which you should have noticed anyway. How’s my English?”

“Pretty good.”

“Perfect, more like,” he said. He affected a broad sharecropper accent from the North Vegas region. “How’s about now?” He changed his voice to a pinched clip like something you might hear in the Ultra Luxe. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Ok, so you can change your voice and speak English.”

“And what sort of job would that be useful for...?”

“I don’t know what jobs there are in the Legion. Are you a... recruit?” she shot him a mischievous look and Vulpes frowned.

“ _No_.”

“Some kind of maintenance worker?”

“ _What_ makes you say that?”

“Your hands are rough.”

“You’re teasing me,” Vulpes said slowly, lacking his usual confidence. Apparently people didn’t usually tease him. “Play the game properly.”

“Ah, so it is a game?”

Vulpes laughed; she’d caught him out. He relaxed again. “It is now.”

The ghoul arrived with their food, laying down yellow plates. Julie’s gecko omelette was garnished with herbs and thickly cut green peppers which shone with buttery grease. Everything smelled good. They began eating.

Vulpes prompted after a few moments, “Do you want your answer or not?”

Juliet honestly wasn’t sure whether she did, but she felt like she should keep up the mood. “Oh, go on then.”

“You have to earn it,” Vulpes said. “I was working when you met me. At the party.”

“General Oliver’s party...” Julie’s fork paused on the way to her mouth. She looked at Vulpes’ steady grey eyes; noticed for the first time the faintest shadow of freckles at the top of his cheeks. And on the tips of his ears. “Then you’re a spy.”

Vulpes smiled a broad smile. “The very best,” he said.

Julie realised his front teeth were slightly crooked.

***

They ate their food quickly so they could go out dancing before Freeside got too rough and rude. Vulpes knew a little bar down Cherrypie Lane which had live music on Saturday nights: a crooner who’d been kicked out of Vegas for dealing jet out of the Tops’ dressing rooms. He told her all this with his hand in the small of her back and his voice so low she could have sworn he wasn’t talking at all. The crooner had thick black hair slicked back with a shadowed scrub beard, but his voice was cigars and honey and he sang about summer times. Vulpes’ hand got heavier on her and the spaces between their bodies closed as the night went on. He would slip her little secrets about Freeside and the Strip, as though trying to impress her, but she scarcely heard a word he said. She was too occupied with the tiny freckles on the tips of his ears, the soft baby hairs at the nape of his neck, the white nick scar on his right eyebrow. She touched these with her fingertips and resisted the urge to say something stupid.

When Julie danced she could feel his body pressing into her and his breath was hot on her neck. Her hands grazed over his back, pressing through and she could again feel the scars on his skin. She wanted to see them. She wanted to see him.

There were stars dancing behind her eyes when they left the bar; the sky was velvet blue above them. He walked her back to Westside and her body burned.

They went up to her motel room and she pressed a shoulder in the doorframe. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and waited for his goodnight.

“When?” Julie said. “When can I see you again?”

“I’ve got work out of town,” he wound the hair around a finger. “So it’ll be a while.”

Julie grabbed his hand as he pulled it away and pressed it to her hot cheek. What she thought was _no_. What she said was “But I need to dance with you.”

Vulpes laughed; “We’ve danced all night,” his hands were rough again; one slid from her cheek to the back of her neck and the other traced down to her waist. “Unless there’re other dances you have in mind?”

Julie’s fingertips went up to brush the scar on his eyebrow; the delicate white nick like the sliver of a moon. She kissed him softly on the mouth and he answered in kind; a warm crooked kiss with his hands heavy on her.

He went to go inside and Julie stopped him, putting her fingers to his chest. “If you think you can satisfy me,” she said.

She could feel his beating heart; something flashed behind the man’s eyes. “I’ll endeavour to.”

“Good,” she kissed him gently again, still holding him back. “But you’ll have to marry me first.”

Julie was not sure what she expected of him: he might have laughed, or rolled his eyes, or dropped his hands from her as though stung. Any of these would have been reasonable, perhaps sensible. She did not expect him to lift her up and twirl her around in his arms. Julie gasped and then laughed and then kissed him.

“You would marry me for this dance?” Vulpes asked, “Knowing that –”

Julie put her fingers to his lips, “Knowing you and how you dance. _Yes_. Why not? I don’t have to think about everything else,” she said. “I just think of you and that is enough.”

It was true and it was more: she could not marry Hsu if she was already taken.

He might have seen something of this calculation in her eyes; he paused in his laughter and said: “there’s nothing else you’re not telling me, Juliet?”

“ _No_ ,” Julie said. “You are enough. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Vulpes’ eyes searched her face. Finding nothing there, he murmured, “I suppose I could be. I am.” He kissed her on the lips and said he would have to leave since he was on the road at dawn. He gave her a mailbox she could write to where he would pick up her letters; some address near Camp Searchlight. She should label the letter for ‘Mark’ and he would find it.

Then he said he would return three weeks hence and that she should find a white dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow update... I've been working on, would you believe it, another f!courier/Vulpes fic! It's sort of the opposite of this one so I've been writing 50/50 which slowed the update on this down. But hey, got here in the end! Hope you enjoy this chapter :) The fluff can't last forever sadly.. you know how the story goes :'(


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